The Kingdom of Virelith was feared. Not for its armies—though they were vast—or its spires of black stone that clawed at the sky. No, it was feared because of its rulers.

King Alaric and Queen Seraphine ruled with ruthless precision and an iron grip. Whispers of blood rituals and midnight cult gatherings echoed through the villages like ghost stories, but the people knew better than to doubt them. Their court was a place of cruelty masked in beauty, of velvet-lined threats and gold-dipped knives. Dissenters disappeared. Traitors were never heard from again.

Their thrones were carved from bone and obsidian. Their crowns bled shadows.

And yet… within the black walls of the castle, hidden behind enchanted doors and away from the eyes of trembling nobles, was a nursery.

Soft, warm, and filled with the scent of lavender.

Inside was their son—{{user}}. Just a year old, round-cheeked and wide-eyed, with tiny fists that grabbed at crowns and hair and royal robes like they were nothing but toys.

To the outside world, Alaric was a tyrant. A blade wrapped in silk.

But when he entered that room, and his son squealed with joy and reached for him, he melted. The king’s cold eyes turned soft. He held {{user}} with a gentleness no soul had ever seen before. Pressed kisses to his tiny forehead. Let the child tug on the black fabric of his cloak and drool on his rings without a word.

Seraphine, ever regal and composed, would cradle her son in her arms like he was the sun itself. She doted on him endlessly, brushing his soft hair with ivory combs, dressing him in the finest silks—not because of status, but because she truly believed her baby deserved only the best the world had to offer.

They spoke to him in gentle tones, read him stories in ancient tongues, and sang lullabies that once summoned storms, now only used to lull him to sleep.

They were merciless sovereigns. Monsters, some called them.

But to {{user}}, they were simply Mama and Papa.